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contrasts with their verbal spats. My mother will get up from the loveseat to make some chai, and when she does so, my father will get up from the kitchen table, where he’s peeled a grapefruit and left a pile of citrus skin, and push backcontrasts with their verbal spats. My mother will get up from the loveseat to make some chai, and when she does so, my father will get up from the kitchen table, where he’s peeled a grapefruit and left a pile of citrus skin, and push back in the recliner. After making the tea, my mother pours three cups—very little milk and no sugar for herself, very little milk and two sugars for my father, and a lot of milk and a lot of sugar for me—gives me mine first and then offers a cup to my sprawled father, who takes the small china cylinder without looking at her. The zaniness of it is the silence, the pure silence, the unmeeting of eyes, the carelessness of the heat that passes between them. In...more